


Empathy

by thecookiemomma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was smarter than either of the other men realized. He knew they were shagging from the moment he saw them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out very differently than I imagined it might. As I say, I'm still getting a handle on my inner!Sherlock, so if he sounds weird, that's why. John doesn't have any sort of 'magical' power in this, he's just very intuitive. Also, I looked up a few things to make this work. If it doesn't, please tell me (especially the bit between John and Donovan). I may do a sequel, I may not.

John Watson was smarter than either of them realized, at least in some areas. Luckily, it was the areas no one expected. He could tell right off, at the first crime scene he went to. No, actually, when Greg came barging into their flat and the two men began speaking their own code, he caught the subtext. It was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt when Greg faintly groans at Sherlock's “you need me.” It was a wonder Donovan, at least, didn't pick up on it. Though, he mused to himself, a woman who could shag a man as unintelligent as Anderson would miss a whole host of clues.

 

Maybe he got all the empathy in the family, because God knows Harry didn't get any at all. Being the older sibling, he learned to watch over Harry pretty quickly, to keep her out of trouble, to protect her from everything, or so he thought. When he found out that he hadn't protected her from much at all, he spent a good three hours at the local gym, and earned himself quite a bit of dosh on wagers and fights. He came home bruised and bloody, but he was no longer angry at himself. The money was just a bonus.

 

Going to Afghanistan to patch up and heal others was really a logical step. He could kick and lash out when he needed – had an enemy at which to shoot at, even – and then the rest of the time, he could heal and keep people alive. It was a grand balance, and Mycroft was right when he said he missed the war. It wasn't the fighting, completely, though. It was the balance of fire and faith, the line he could walk to block the evil, to push back the darkness – both externally and internally.

 

When he was invalided home, he felt the carefully controlled facade fall, and the PTSD began. Meeting Sherlock had changed that.

 

It came to a head on a Friday night. The Baker Street boys were lounging, John in his seat, Sherlock stretched out on the couch. They were between cases, but they'd had several in a string, so John hoped it would take a while before Sherlock got bored. He looked down at his book, realizing that it didn't hold his interest. His flatmate did. His lying, absolutely gorgeous, bloody annoying flatmate drew him toward himself like a black hole. People either got swallowed up, or they started to pull toward him, however slowly. He gazed over at the man, attempting to be subtle, but knowing him well enough to know that may be more difficult than ever.

 

“Is there something on my nose, John?” Sherlock asked quietly, hand behind his head, long frame stretched completely out on the sofa.

 

“Not that I can see, no.” John replied honestly, shaking his head slightly. “Why? You want there to be?” He couldn't resist the jibe, and wondered what the man will make of his silly words.

 

“Honestly.” Sherlock always sounded like a little boy when he's annoyed. _“Mycroft,”_ he could well imagine a young Sherlock whining, _“Stratton's just taken my pencil.”_ He rolled his eyes and chuckled at the thought, then snickered when Sherlock rolled to face the couch back and curled up, broadcasting his annoyance.

 

“Bloody drama queen.” John grinned. “Fancy a cuppa? Or something to eat?”

 

“No.” The single-word denial shot down John's idea of getting some nutrition in him. John shrugged, and looked back down to his book.

 

Two or three paragraphs later, Sherlock shifted again, this time studying him. “You're much more perceptive than people realize, aren't you?” John quirked an eyebrow, communicating without needing to say more. “Oh, please. You are. You pick things up quickly, but you don't say anything. Why?”

 

“Not the kind of thing that solves cases, Sherlock.” John sighed, then snickered to himself. _Unless it's a bad case of blue balls._

 

“How would you know? I never know what piece of information will lead to the pertinent discovery!” Now, John knew, the detective was bordering on petulant. “How long have you known?” 

 

“Known what, Sherlock?” John bookmarked his spot, and closed the book, giving up the pretense of avoiding this conversation. 

 

“That Lestrade and I have a … thing.” 

 

“S'that what it is?” John murmured. He knew it may just be a 'thing' for Sherlock, but Greg's heart was completely in it. John couldn't read Sherlock like everybody else. It could be because he found the man too attractive for that – which didn't make any sense, because there had been others he'd found attractive and had no compunction whatsoever in using what he knew to their mutual satisfaction. However, it was much more likely that it was just _Sherlock._ “First day.” He shrugged, feeling some sort of vindictive pleasure at being the one explaining his methods. 

 

“How?” Sherlock had given up the pretense as well, and sat up, staring at his flatmate as if he could absorb the power of empathy. 

 

“Can't exactly explain it, Sherlock. I just know sometimes.” He considered telling the tall man that Greg was completely invested in him, but he wasn't sure whether that would be well received. It could be something Sherlock doesn't know, or it could be “an obvious factoid that even a dullard could deduce.” 

 

“Boring.” Sherlock flopped back down. John knew he was intrigued, but this was outside his 'area', so he would play bored until he could find something to anchor the new train of thought to. 

 

“It's been called 'empathy.'” John took pity on him and explained. “Sometimes, I can tell what a person's thinking before they speak. It's kind of like using their body language, but seeing the next layer down. It's not predictable, nor is it a hundred percent accurate.” 

 

“Hmmph.” Sherlock sounded completely uninterested. John finished his tea and headed up to bed, still chortling at his immature flatmate. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock arrived at Greg's house in a bit of a strop. Greg heard him come in and had no idea what'd set him off this time. As he looked up from his takeaway and telly, he knew it wasn't going to be an easy night. “Everything alright?” It wasn't a push, but he knew Sherlock must have wanted to say _something_ to him, even if it was just,'I'm bored. Fuck me.' Greg knew Sherlock may not have had the same depth of feeling he did, but he was perfectly alright with what he could get. 

 

“John knows, Lestrade.” Greg had yet to get the younger man to use his given name. 

 

“Knows what, Sunshine?” Greg sat his meal down and patted the couch beside him. “C'mere. Tell me.” 

 

Of course, Sherlock had to do the exact opposite. “About us.” Sherlock was clearly nervous, pacing and scowling and throwing his hands in the air. 

 

“Come again?” Greg wasn't expecting that. “How'd he find out, then?” 

 

“He's known the whole time. Since he met us, apparently.” _Ahhh._ Greg got it now. Sometimes, not being the first one to know something could be nearly painful to his lover. He solved a difficult case without Sherlock's input one time, and Sherlock brooded for days. 

 

“It happens that way sometimes. Now, come on. He's not said anything thus far, has he? I mean, other than to you?” 

 

“No, but that's not the point.” Sherlock finally gave up on his pacing and flopped down beside Greg on the couch. 

 

“Yeah. I got that. But, look. Do you trust him?” Greg turned, gazing up into beautiful blue eyes that mesmerized him every time. 

 

Sherlock gave him a look that said, _Well, duh! Of course I trust him. Don't be an ignorant berk._

 

“Well, then.” Greg shrugged. “C'mon.” He slid his arms around Sherlock's body and drew him in, holding him close. “It's not gonna change anything, is it?” 

 

“It might.” Sherlock replied. “The probability of things changing dramatically increases as a larger number of people become aware of the true nature of our relationship.” 

 

Greg blinked. From Sherlock, that was like a declaration of love. His heart swelled with happiness, and he grinned. “But the basic variables remain the same, don't they?” He'd learned how to talk to Sherlock. Most of the time, he did fairly well. 

 

“Quite.” Sherlock turned, lowered his head to Greg's, and initiated a slow, sultry kiss that left them both panting. “Come on, Lestrade,” he chided. “I want to go upstairs.” 

 

Greg thumbed the telly off, binned the rest of the food, and followed. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In one sense, John's words to Donovan are intended to be insulting. However, please don't take offense. He's making a point. Thanks.

John watched the two of them now even more closely. He was getting more used to Sherlock's ways, and now, it was clear the man was committed to Greg. It was little tiny things. When John watched – or listened, it was pretty clear that he felt something. That left a pang in his heart, because the longer he shared a flat with the mad man, the more he found himself intrigued. He'd never met a man so focused as Sherlock Holmes, and he probably never would again. He gazed across a soggy crime scene, watching the two argue some point of protocol, and shook his head. Donovan noticed it, and misinterpreted. As usual.

 

“Freak's in high form today, eh?” She tilted her head toward Sherlock.

 

“Rather you didn't use that term, Sally,” John replied for the umpteenth time that week, it seemed.

 

“And why not?” Normally, she just walked off in a huff, but John knew she was itching for a fight. Sherlock could tell him _why_ Sally felt that way, but he could see that it was true and not much else. 

 

“Because it's a derogatory term that should be banned from being applied to humans.” One of the downsides of being highly empathetic was that he could imagine easily what it would be like to be the one who got called by that name on a regular basis. It would hurt like holy fucking hell, he knew. So, he kept it from his vocabulary and encouraged others to do the same. 

 

“Just a word, innit?” She wasn't as angry now, just interested. 

 

“Hmm. As is pig. Or filth. Or plonk.” John added no malice to his voice, just continued to watch the two men. 

 

“Now, see here...” Sally began to get annoyed again. “You can't call me...” 

 

“Didn't, now, did I?” John stepped away from the woman, and sighed, projecting his voice a little. “Listen, Sherlock, the night's not getting any younger. Let's let the DI finish up here. You've got what you need, don't you?” 

 

“I had what I needed twenty minutes ago.” Sherlock swirled off, and Greg gave John a look of thanks. 

 

John replied with his own meaningful look, then trailed after his flatmate back into the night. They headed home, Sherlock postulating and bellyaching most of the way. John listened, making appreciative noises at the right points, and nodding his agreement with whatever Sherlock said. He was listening, but he was also remembering the sight of two strong, virile men, hair wet from London's rains, arguing back and forth about the procedure of solving a crime. John knew it was just their way of communicating outside of their little bubble. It amused him, then, without warning, he realized he envied them. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock watched John as they rode home. There was definitely something on his mind. He couldn't tell what, but he knew his friend and flatmate was preoccupied. He sighed and pulled out his cell. 

 

_Think something's wrong with John. I don't know what. - SH_

 

It didn't take long for Lestrade to reply.  _Is he hurt? - L_ Sherlock cataloged what he knew of the man beside him, and shook his head, typing in the reply. 

 

_No. No wounds. And where would he have gotten them? - SH_

 

_His leg might be acting up with the rains. Little more than usual lately.- L_

 

“How is your leg?” Sherlock just asked, not bothering with preamble. _Boring._

 

“Hmm? Oh. Leg's fine, thanks for asking. It aches a little, but no more than usual.” John shrugged, signifying that it wasn't that big of an issue. Then, he returned to looking out the window. 

 

_He says it's fine. I believe him. If I had asked about it and it was the source of his problems, he would have smiled. There was no smile. - SH_

 

Sherlock stroked his chin, considering the possibilities. He started mentally listing them.  _Harry._ No. too obvious, and the wrong kind of expression for that. There was a little wrinkle that showed up in John's face when he thought about his sister. Sherlock could quite understand that, as he had one expression that he only saw on his own face after talking to Mycroft. Could it be someone new in his life? He discarded that possibility quickly. They hadn't had time for him to form any attachments lately. He continued to process theories, each more inane and improbable than the last. He was grateful to hear the text noise on his phone. 

 

Lestrade's reply made him frown a little more, however.  _Bugger me then. Haven't a clue. Maybe he's just feeling down. It happens. - L_

 

Sherlock snorted, tempted to give a crass reply, then paid the cabbie as they arrived at they arrived. “Come along, John. It's getting cold.” 

 

“Hmm?” John had been completely lost in his own world. “Oh, yeah. Ta.” He nodded a farewell to the driver, and slid out of the seat. Sherlock could hear his footfalls behind him as he stepped up into their flat. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Greg looked down at his mobile and frowned. He had a feeling he knew what was going on, and he had been afraid of it. He sighed, gave up the idea of a restful night as a bad job, and readied himself to spend an evening talking to Doctor John Watson.

 

He texted the man, trying to keep it light. _Fancy a pint? I figure we've got something to discuss. - L_

 

He thought about where they could meet that would be close to Baker Street.

 

_Wondered when you'd ask. Merrill's?_ John named a pub that wasn't too far from the doctor's flat. 

 

_Brill. Meet you there in twenty. - L_ He finished dressing and headed out. 

 

It didn't take him the full twenty to get there, but he was grateful of the extra few minutes to scope the place out. He wasn't sure exactly how the conversation would go. There were several possibilities, really, depending on what the doctor had to say. He loved Sherlock deeply, and knew that Sherlock loved him as much as he could, but there was something about the good doctor that had them both flummoxed. 

 

“Cheers, Inspector,” John greeted a few moments later. “I'll grab the first round?” He nodded toward the bar. 

 

“Thanks, yeah. Imagine I'll grab that table over there, if that's alright?” He gestured toward a small table in the corner. 

 

John chuckled, but it was a chuckle of a man used to living with absurdities. “The couples' corner? Something you want to tell me, Lestrade?” 

 

“Please, John. Call me Greg.” He grinned, and then quirked a brow. “Well, you know, it is kind of appropriate.” He regretted his words the moment they left his mouth, for John's expression fell, ending up in that grimace that Greg saw so often at crime scenes. _Bugger all._

 

“Maybe.” John tilted his head toward the bar. “What d'ya fancy, then?” 

 

“Eh. Just a pint of house bitter's good.” 

 

“Comin' right up.” John pasted the cheerful smile on again, and Greg moved to the table. He sat down, waited until John settled the two drinks on to the table and sat down. “So.” He looked up at Greg, expectancy and something else in his eyes. 

 

“Right to the point, then?” Greg grinned again, and took a long draught of his beer. “So.” He exhaled sharply. “Sherlock told me what you talked about.” He looked down as he spoke, then looked up to catch his reaction. 

 

“Yeah. I saw how things were right away. Apparently, I inherited all the empathy in the family.” John gave a wry smile that hid layers of meaning. Greg shivered at the thought of getting to unpack that, then wondered where that thought came from. He loved Sherlock, but sometimes... there was a need for something – for someone – a little more normal. 

 

“Oh? Your sister didn't get any, then?” Greg decided to let the doctor explain himself a little. 

 

John snorted. “No. She's almost as empathetic as Sherlock. So, you can imagine the one time the two of them met, it was like oil and water. He was deducing things about her, and she was insulting him left and right. He couldn't care less, of course, but she was completely offended. Especially since I was holding my sides from all the laughter.” 

 

Greg snorted. He could see that. He'd seen Harry once, just in passing, and John's comments seemed to flow with what he thought of the woman. “I bet. I still laugh a bit at Sherlock and Mycroft. They're so childish.” He ran a finger around the rim of his drink, considering how to bring up his thoughts. 

 

John snorted in reply, and just looked at Greg. Greg caught his eye, and saw the same intensity that Sherlock had, just on a very different level. “What's on your mind?” John's voice gentled, and he lifted his mug to sip at his beer. “I won't say a thing to anyone, and I won't come between you, if that's what you're afraid of.” John looked away, his face a study of tight muscles and tension. If he were in the interrogation room, he'd push the point and break him, but this wasn't a murderer, this was a mate. 

 

“I'm not afraid of that,” Greg found himself saying. “Wouldn't bother me at all.” 

 

“You wouldn't mind if I slept with your … man?” 

 

“Not what you said, was it, Johnny?” Greg quirked a brow, using the nickname as a daring move to keep the man's attention. Naturally, it worked. Greg watched a shiver pass through the man's frame. “Cold?” He pushed now, gently, but ruthlessly. 

 

“You'd be okay with something like that? I wouldn't even know where to begin.” John looked down, examining his fingernails. “I mean, yeah, I'd know where to start, but ...” Greg kept his eyes on John' face, pleased beyond measure to see pink suffusing up his cheeks. _Wonder how far that blush goes._ He shook his head.

 

“Yeah, I'd be fine with it. Wouldn't be me you'd need to convince, though,” Greg grimaced. “It'd be Himself.” 

 

John's blush disappeared, and his own grimace returned. “Yeah. I can see how that'll go. 'Sherlock, I want to shag the both of you. I don't want to come between you except in the most literal sense of the word. I mean, we're already living together, what's one more …'” He rolled his eyes, and drained another large part of his drink. “He'd shoot me. With my own gun.” 

 

“Which I patently know nothing about, Captain.” 

 

“Of course not,” John snickered. He finished off his drink and waved for another one.”You want to get this round? It'd only be fair. Not sure I want more than this.” 

 

“Course.” Greg pulled out a couple bills and went up to pay for the drinks. When he returned, there was another drink beside him, waiting for him to finish off the one he currently had. “So, if we're gonna do this, I'd like to know a little bit about you, Doctor John …” 

 

“Hamish,” John supplied, helpfully.

 

“Really? And my gentlemen have such unique names.” Greg grinned, giving Johnny a salacious wink. “Tell me about yourself, John Hamish Watson.” 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sat at the desk, updating his website. His mind was spinning. He had a very good idea where John had gone, and with whom. He was torn, however, at the thought. He knew they were discussing the fact that he slept with Lestrade, but he couldn't fathom what they might have to say to each other that would take _this_ long. He gazed over the HTML, visualizing how the code would appear when it was compiled. He made a few minor changes, fixed a couple coding errors, and uploaded it back to the server. When he refreshed the page, he checked it against his mental assessment, and found it correct. Having finished fixing the code, he added a little more to a couple of the threads on the forums, then leaned back in his chair, waiting for something. It felt like a stakeout without the rush of discovery. 

 

Soon enough, he heard the sound of voices on the stairs. From the tone and diction, it sounded like neither man was extremely pissed, in either sense of the word. That was a good sign, he supposed. If they needed to have some sort of discussion about emotional attachments, it was better to be in control of all their faculties. 

 

John stepped in first, sitting down on the couch, Lestrade sitting beside him. The camaraderie he'd heard on the stairs was conspicuously absent, which told Sherlock that they did indeed intend to spoil his evening with a discussion. There were two major probable possibilities, only one of which was favorable, judging by the signs. He closed his laptop – or was this one John's? – and steepled his fingers under his chin. 

 

“Neither of you is inebriated, nor are you ill-tempered,” he began, just letting the information flow from his lips as he did with any deduction. “Your choice of seating proves that you have had an amicable discussion, as does the tone and timbre of your voices on the stairs. However, you fell silent the moment you saw me, so you come to me with one of several possibilities, two of which are the most probable, and only one of which would seem logical in any sense. I do hope I am correct.” 

 

“Probably, you brilliant sod,” John replied, a light shining in his eyes. Sherlock hadn't noticed that particular expression before, but he had always purposefully looked away, not wanting to see what he could not apprehend. However, now, if his reasoning was sound, he may have the opportunity. 

 

“Sunshine,” Lestrade began, looking down at his fingers. “Johnny and I were talking, and one of the main reasons he noticed is because he noticed _us_.” 

 

“So he said,” Sherlock countered, hoping the two men would speak more clearly or at the very least, not repeat facts already in evidence. 

 

“No, Sherlock,” John clarified, with a bit of annoyance in his tone. _Sherlock's inner voice noted that in the past, he may have had the tendency to rile up the good doctor to see those eyes flash._ Pushing the sentiment aside, he focused on his flatmate. “What Greg means is that I _noticed_ each of you separately. I fancied each of you. I was attracted to you sexually.” Now, John was just being obtuse. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know you got it. But you didn't at first.” He grins. “So,” John attempts to continue, fiddling with the tassels on the throw pillow. 

 

“So, the option you have chosen is the most inclusive.” Sherlock felt a sort of loosening of his chest at the deduction, and he stood up, moving toward the couch. There wasn't room for him to sit beside the other two men, but he felt an almost visible philotic string pulling him toward them. He had felt it before with Lestrade, but instead of merely doubling in strength, it appeared to have squared. _Interesting. I wonder how it will be once we've connected sexually. Will I feel pulled toward them separately? Balanced between them?_ One track of his mind conjured experiments while most of the rest of his attention focused on the two men. 

 

“Yeah, if you want to phrase it that way,” John replied, “I prefer to say something more plain. Like a threesome. Or a menage-a-trois. Or, you and me and he.” The stupid grin on John's face was getting bigger, and Lestrade was snorting. 

 

“Give over, Johnny.” Lestrade had already come up with a nickname for him. That was a good indicator for the relationship. “Sherlock, how about we conduct a little experiment.” Sherlock was surprised at Lestrade's words, until he saw the dry humor in his expression. 

 

“Well, then?” He was interested in hearing this.

 

“First, get comfortable. Pull that ruddy chair over here so you can be close.” Sherlock complied, and then flourished his hands, waiting for the instructions. “Alright. Every good experiment needs a control group, yeah?” 

 

“Indubitably.” Sherlock was slightly confused, until Lestrade leaned in, kissing him gently, much like they did post-coitus. 

 

“Ah. I begin to see.” Sherlock broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Lestrade's. “And then, what is the next step?” 

 

“Kiss Johnny.” John was smiling indulgently at the pair of them, so Sherlock shifted slightly, leaning over just enough to set his lips to John's. It was awkward at first, but with a few seconds' practice, they were snogging like old pros. 

 

“God that's hot,” Lestrade whispered, and Sherlock had to break the kiss to see the effect it was having on him. 

 

“It is your turn to experiment, Lestrade.” Sherlock's voice was low and gravelly. “Kiss John.” 

 

“Now wait a minute,” John objected, though it didn't appear to be a real objection. “Why can't _I_ kiss _him_?” 

 

Sherlock snorted with the inanity of it, and gestured. “By all means, then. Kiss him.” 

 

John leaned back into the couch, pulling Lestrade toward him, settling his hand behind his head. Past the initial awkwardness, they began kissing in earnest, and Sherlock had to admit that Lestrade may have had a point about the tertiary effects of viewing his lovers in a passionate embrace. “I believe that the experiment was a critical success, Lestrade.” He smiled, feeling something welling up inside him that he had never felt before. 

 

“I think so, yeah,” Lestrade replied, voice low and husky. “So, gents, we know we all want this, yeah?” 

Sherlock nodded, and John uttered a soft assent. “So, where do we go from here?” 

 

“Sherlock's bed is bigger,” John replied, and Sherlock had to admit that was the truth. 


End file.
